


Too Wise To Woo Peacably

by atmilliways



Category: Good Omens (TV)
Genre: Angry Sex, Aziraphale Has a Penis (Good Omens), Aziraphale aims to make him behave, Boners Acknowledged, Crowley Has a Penis (Good Omens), Crowley is horny, First Time, Idiots in Love, Ineffable Husbands (Good Omens), M/M, Porn with Feelings, Pre-Canon, Rough Sex, They’re both jealous idiots, Trueforms peeking through
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-02-28
Updated: 2020-02-28
Packaged: 2021-02-28 06:15:29
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 8,153
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22939291
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/atmilliways/pseuds/atmilliways
Summary: Sometimes you only realize you're jealous when you realize that your not-lover is just wrapping up a demonic seduction.Or, Aziraphale and Crowley trash a hotel conference room, not with explicit consent but with clear enthusiasm on both sides.
Relationships: Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Comments: 18
Kudos: 57
Collections: MFU Palentine's Day Exchange





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [D20Owlbear](https://archiveofourown.org/users/D20Owlbear/gifts).

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Update: (March 4th, 2020) Now with footnotes added in and coded properly! TToTT

The day was both sunny and brisk, an almost summer-like cloudless sky with a spring breeze just on the _cusp_ of warm . . . but not quite. The time was two forty-six in the afternoon. It was a Tuesday. 

Aziraphale loved it, because he was an angel and he had to. In all the ways that really mattered, however, he hated it. 

February tended to have that effect on him these days, with the crass commercialization of Valentine’s Day which had, gradually but with the insidiousness of a prolific weed, spread itself more or less evenly throughout the entire month. On a regular day he could walk past a flower shop, jewelry store, or chocolatier[1] and bask in the good vibes of giddiness, anticipation, and care, but in _February_? In February it was all veined through—if not obscured entirely—with greed, anxiety, and condescension. 

That was why he had called in a favor with Crowley to cover an assignment from Upstairs. Usually he saved those for avoiding going abroad at inopportune times, but a local jeweler’s convention, at this time of year? _No_ and _thank you._

The results, however, were causing him to question the entire Arrangement. 

He’d only meant to catch Crowley outside the convention and offer to take him to lunch as a thank you for his efforts. He hadn’t expected to see Crowley, hair and clothes rumpled, bidding a rather intimate farewell to the very billionaire that Heaven had wanted dissuaded from investing heavily in blood diamonds.[2]

He was no coward either, but he hurriedly fled the scene before he could be spotted. Diamonds be damned—his blood was absolutely _boiling._

And did he want to examine why? _Absolutely_ not. 

Aziraphale paced circles around a nearby park, examining why. 

Firstly, Crowley _should_ have used a demonic miracle, not a _base seduction._ What if Upstairs noticed, where would that put the two of them? Up to their necks in holy water being brought to a boil over roaring hellfire, no doubt. 

Secondly, _what_ had possessed Crowley to wear denim trousers that looked as though they’d been painted on? The phrase “give away the farm” came to mind. What _right_ did he have to be so infuriatingly good looking while being so blatantly . . . _hands on_?

Thirdly, there would absolutely need to be a confrontation about this, and he would need to be firm. The urge to yell was almost overpowering already, and Crowley wasn’t even anywhere in sight at the moment, but Aziraphale knew he mustn’t lose his temper over this. He was already furious with himself for how angry he felt; the only salve would be to cling desperately to the moral high ground, so he would march right back to the hotel that the convention was being held in and do exactly that. 

After all, it should be easy. He’s an _angel._ [3]

And so Aziraphale found himself storming back to the convention—storming the castle, storming through the mists and fogs of West Essex to find the Black Knight on behalf of the Table Round. Not much time had passed, according to the timepiece on a chain in his pocket, and he could still sense Crowley’s demonic aura in the building. 

It only took a moment to find him. The fiend had, despite the iffy weather, neglected to wear a jacket out and was showboating around on his way through the lobby in mere waistcoat and shirtsleeves. Shirtsleeves that had been _rolled up to the elbow._ All dark and expensive bespoke tailoring, the only glint of color besides the heavily gelled shock of red fringe draped over his forehead was a hint of burgundy lining to the waistcoat. That positively _slinking_ walk Aziraphale would recognize anywhere, and zeroed in on instantly. 

“Crowley,” Aziraphale said coldly when he was within earshot, and was mildly gratified to see the demon start in surprise. “A word, please?”

Swiveling mid step, Crowley turned and finally spotted him in the crowded lobby—not that Aziraphale had been hiding, particularly. Or even standing that far away. “Oh, hey. Hi,” he replied, tugging hastily on the hem of his shirt to vanquish some of the more obvious signs of recent dishevelment about his collar. “Hi, Aziraphale. What’re you doing here, I thought you didn’t want to come.”

“A word,” Aziraphale repeated firmly, snagging Crowley by the elbow to ensure that he would follow. 

“Wh—Angel,” Crowley protested, but stumbled after without much resistance. It was impossible to tell for sure, given the dark lenses. Aziraphale wasn’t even looking in his direction while they wove their way towards an empty conference room that wasn’t part of the convention, but it sounded as though his eyes were narrowing, guard snapping up in response to the frosty treatment. 

As soon as they were alone and the double doors had been miracled shut and locked behind them, Aziraphale released his iron grip and rounded on the demon. “Have you taken leave of your senses?” he demanded. 

“It’s the 1990’s, Aziraphale. No one talks like that anymore.” Crowley made a show of _not_ massaging the elbow he’d been caught by, even though there had been force enough to bruise. “What’s this about. Why couldn’t it wait until our park rendezvous next month?”

Aziraphale sucked in a deep breath, trying to calm his rising anger at Crowley _pretending not to know what he’d done_. 

“You,” he managed to say in a surprisingly level voice, “were supposed to perform a miracle for me.”

“I did!”

“You did not! You seduced the human in question instead!”

Crowley paused in the midst of rolling down one of his shirtsleeves, coolly raising an eyebrow. “So? Different method, same result. What’s the problem?”

“It’s not the same result at all!” Aziraphale snapped. (So he had lost his temper after all. Ah well, he didn’t miss it much at the moment; there was too much righteous indignation[4] bubbling up in his chest for that.) “It's a corruption, pure and simple, and could only possibly end with _me_ getting in trouble with Upstairs!”

Both eyebrows stretched to new heights of incredulity on Crowley’s forehead and he slowly, deliberately finished pulling his sleeves down over his wrists while he spoke. “Don’t tell me you don’t know the value of it as a tool. Angel, I’ve seen you do temptations for me and make perfectly ordinary statements sound more lewd than a first edition Kama Sutra.”

Had Aziraphale possessed such a thing as a string of pearls, he would have clutched at them. “I have _never,_ ” he retorted,[5] a flush rising to his face at the outlandish accusation—clearly made as a smokescreen for Crowley’s transgression. “I’m an angel of the Lord, for Heaven’s sake, and you won't distract me from the real matter at hand here!”

Crowley groaned, gnashed his teeth, stomped his foot, the whole bit—obviously in frustration at being thwarted. The sound echoed through the empty conference room, devoid of any furnishings beyond a single round table and several stacks of chairs. “The one time you don’t take ages to get around to a confrontation,” he snarled up at the darkened chandelier at the center of the ceiling, then whipped his sunglasses off with all the bravado of a gunslinger drawing his pistol in a Wild West film. “It’ll turn out exactly like you wanted! You said, make sure that human doesn’t fund more mining operations in Sierra Leone. Well, didn’t I distract him from doing that? The conference ends in six minutes, he’s upstairs taking a well-earned nap in his hotel room, Downstairs doesn’t have any record of any suspicious miracles from me, and Upstairs won’t look too closely about the means as long as they get the end they wanted.”

Aziraphale paused. That . . . _did_ seem like sound logic, more or less the same as what the Arrangement had operated on for hundreds of years. 

And yet, he felt no inclination to let the argument go. Most of his mental faculties were occupied trying to decide between putting more space between himself and Crowley or storming into the demon’s personal space to make his distaste for the whole situation that much more clear. “What if they check?” he asked stubbornly. 

Crowley threw both hands in the air in exasperation. “Oh for—We’ve been over this a million times, Aziraphale, they _never_ check!”

The words sent a prickle down Aziraphale's spine and a few extra third eyes cracked open in anxious watchfulness. Even at the best of times Aziraphale had never enjoyed the vertigo-inducing overlap of his true and corporeal forms; it rankled that the conversation, and Crowley in particular, was making it happen now. 

“Don’t tempt fate,” Aziraphale snapped, the ominous rumble of divinity creeping into his voice. Suddenly he was bearing down on Crowley, who attempted to retreat until he backed right into the closed door behind him. “There’s a first time for everything. You should know more about that than anyone by now, wouldn’t you say?”

Crowley’s mouth fell open, a protest no doubt ready to tumble out as he tried to slip away, but Aziraphale was hemming him in with a hand against the door to the left of his head, near the demon mark on the side of his face. They were close enough that Aziraphale could just make out individual flecks of gold in those serpentine eyes; one glance towards the forearm crowding his peripheral vision on that side, and Crowley’s mouth quickly closed. 

“After all, you _are_ the original tempter,” Aziraphale continued angrily. Another eye opened and he could see the demon’s aura, all jangly Hell-vibes that forced red tinted aftertrails into his ethereal not-vision and a buildup of some strong emotion that seemed to correspond with his own. “The harbinger and engineer of so many of humanity’s most deplorable firsts.”

“Not all of them,” Crowley muttered, and tried to slide to the right. 

Aziraphale quickly trapped him with his other arm, bracketing Crowley on both sides. “I didn’t _say_ all of them!”

“Fine, you didn’t! Ssstop thisss,” Crowley hissed back. 

A wave of— _heat ice fear fury hunger something_ —passed through Aziraphale upon seeing the tips of forked tongue flickering past his lips. “I’m not tempted to stop in the slightest,” he growled. Between their proximity and the glare of Crowley’s aura, his corporation’s eyes were having trouble focusing. 

“I’m ssseriousss, Asssiraphale!”

He hadn’t expected Crowley to strike out at him, even if it was only a rather feeble, one-handed shove against his chest, more for emphasis than an actual show of strength. Even without anticipating it, he was able to snag Crowley by the wrist and pin it against the door before he could fully withdraw. Aziraphale’s stance remained firm as a rock. How _dare_ the demon touch him with those unclean fingers, probably unwashed from . . . _whatever he had done_ with that investor, which Aziraphale _definitely wasn’t picturing_ , not at all, and certainly not with any dismayed twinge in his chest or plummeting sensation in his stomach. 

Crowley blinked. Then, coiling like a snake preparing to strike, he pressed back against Aziraphale’s grip, testing its strength. 

The real lash came a moment later, again with no warning. This time Aziraphale rocked with the force of Crowley’s shove, and again he managed (if only just) to catch the offending wrist and slam it back against the door above Crowley’s head. They were much closer now; Crowley straining forward in active resistance, teeth bared and pupils snapped thin with pique, and Aziraphale leaning hard enough into the strain to counter it that he could taste Crowley’s breath. It was all the angel could do to hold the tableau. 

They didn’t even _need_ to breathe. He focused on that. Tried to build that minor annoyance into a dam against all the other things that were struggling to leak into his conscious thoughts—like how much he wanted to close the distance and smother those heaving breaths with his mouth. 

It was infuriating and confounding to him that Crowley so often made him feel this way without even seeming to try. Because why would the demon ever try to make _him_ feel this way? As far as he could tell Crowley never so much as noticed, so obviously it was neither a goal nor anywhere on his radar. 

Aziraphale tightened his grip on Crowley’s wrists from mere iron to bone-grinding. 

In retaliation, Crowley kicked out while slithering his body down against the door and to the left. One snakeskin boot hooked around the back of Aziraphale’s knee. Crowley tugged there to try and unbalance him, succeeded in unbalancing himself instead, and lost control of his intended slither to flat out fall. Aziraphale, caught off guard by the sudden shift in weight as his adversary slipped, tripped after him. 

They hit the floor together, Crowley already hissing and writhing like . . . well, like a demon, trying to break free. Patches of scales broke out across his neck and wrists, smooth when Aziraphale’s hands shifted down them but prickling, catching, tearing at his skin when rubbed the wrong direction, trying to shed him like an unneeded skin. More eyes blinked open to glare in wounded response— _who are you calling unneeded, serpent_ —and Aziraphale dipped into new depths of his angelic strength until the skin and cloth over this shoulder blades split in a tumble of white feathers. 

They rolled. This time Crowley wriggled his way on top, one arm wrenched free and a knee to Aziraphale’s back. His own wings erupted out and beat at the air, an extra leverage that made all the difference, pressing Aziraphale down with the force of an infernal gail until the angel lost his last purchase. Then Crowley had _him_ by the wrist instead, twisting his arm back over one white wing and driving him down to the floor. 

_Soft,_ Aziraphale scolded himself, scowling into the bland hotel carpet. His fighting form hadn’t been quite the same since hand-to-hand sword combat had gone out of style, and he’d thought of Crowley as something like an ally for hundreds of years. 

“Now lisssten,” Crowley hissed in his ear, shifting to lean in close. “It’s bloody frustrating that I did what you asked of me, just used my own methods is all, but all I’m getting for my trouble is yelled at. If you’d just _wait,_ you’ll sssee that it’s going to work out just fine.”

Aziraphale made a scoffing noise into the scratchy, short-pile carpet. He hadn’t tested how well Crowley had him pinned yet. But just as he was about to, he felt something . . . and froze. 

“ _Besides_ , not doing any miracles means there’s nothing suspicious written down in Hell’s bad books. Or their good books, for that matter. Not that they have any. Ssso!” Crowley squeezed Aziraphale’s wrist and pressed down harder against his back for emphasis. “If I let you up right now, are you going to keep fighting me? Or are you going to trust that I handled it for you in a way that will keep _both_ of us out of trouble?”

What Aziraphale had noticed. . . . What Aziraphale had noticed and temporarily lost the ability to process anything else for the moment . . . was decidedly _not_ soft. He’d been forced to his knees, one shoulder and cheek pressed to the floor with his free hand braced in an attempt to avoid being mashed into it by the efforts of Crowley’s wingbeats. 

There was also an entirely different sort of _effort_ pressed against the small of his back, and a flush creeping down his neck straight to his own . . . answering appendage. 

Instead of responding to Crowley’s question, Aziraphale simply reacted. 

On the next upward stroke of Crowley’s wings he snapped his own up, heedless of how this wrenched his own arm back in a way no human would be able to stand. He levered himself up on hands and legs that were just as strong as they were soft, and pitched the demon from his back. Immediately, Crowley’s wings became a detriment as he flailed to regain his balance; Aziraphale was quicker to fold his wings out of the way, get behind Crowley, and force him into much the same position they’d just held, but with roles reversed. 

Crowley blessed loudly and slumped towards the carpet, red hair falling out of the messy half-bun that had kept the bulk of it behind his ears. 

“This?” Aziraphale asked indignantly. “This is the kind of thing you like?”

“Ngk,” replied Crowley. The tips of his ears suddenly glowed brighter than his hair, and except for the natural resistance of unbroken bones and sinews he wasn’t putting up any fight at all anymore. “It. . . . I. . . . That is. . . . Y-you are too!”

Aziraphale made a non-committal noise in response because, well. On the one hand, yes. On the other hand, Crowley wasn’t making grammatical sense. On the other _other_ hand, he couldn’t quite decide if he was still angry or slipping more towards fascination. And more besides, but he was already past running out of hands to juggle all the things competing for space in his head. So instead of trying to untangle all that, he shifted a hand to Crowley’s hip and experimented with holding the demon in place that way. 

Said demon shivered and let himself be angel-handled, still without protest. 

“Is this what you do with them?” Aziraphale asked. He could hear his voice as though from a great distance, how it had dropped about an octave lower than usual. “With the people you tempt? Do you let them use you like this?” To demonstrate what he meant by _this,_ he gave a slight, suggestive roll of his own hips. 

Crowley let out a shuddering breath. “No, I. . . . I don’t.”

Aziraphale stroked his hand down Crowley’s thigh, slipping around to the front until his fingers brushed against the bulge straining with arousal against those sinfully tight trousers. “Liar,” he said in tones of one who might merely be discussing something as innocuous as the weather. Really, he had no idea if Crowley was lying or not, and was increasingly unsure if it mattered. He released his grip on Crowley’s arm and watched as it stayed in place for a moment, then drifted down to the floor for additional bracing. “You’re not even a little interested in getting away, are you?”

“Not from you,” Crowley mumbled into the carpet, arching slightly against him. Just enough to remind Aziraphale of his own interest, but subdued, almost hesitant. As if to say, _Wouldn’t you like to know? Feels like you’d_ really _like to know, in fact, and that suits me just fine._ But also adding, _If you’re up for it. If you’re not too angry with me to want to._

“Ah.” Aziraphale swallowed hard. “Well then.” 

_Was_ he still angry? Was he still . . . oh, all right, still _jealous_ of some passing human on the business end of a temptation? 

. . . He was, God help him. But not enough to walk away from what was so clearly on offer. Aziraphale felt petty and conflicted enough to crawl out of his own skin—and already partly had in a way, considering how many of his eyes remained open—but Crowley’s body was doing everything short of literally begging out loud, and he never had been able to turn down any creature in need. Even one so . . . so _confounding_ as this. 

With a flick of his wrist he miracled Crowley’s clothes away and found himself staring down at uncharted constellations of freckles scattered across the pale back and shoulders, some surrounded or obscured by patches of erupted scales. More scales bloomed along the demon’s back as he watched, racing down the long length of spine like a shiver. Aziraphale’s breath caught at the sight, awed. _I am causing him to react this way._ In a similar vein, he _blinked_ , the light in the cavernously empty room increasing gradually from no corporeal source in particular.[6]

When Crowley squirmed under the holy glow, it was to press _back_ rather than to get away. Aziraphale bit down hard on a groan and grabbed the other being’s hips with both hands, squeezing in warning. Not hard enough to bruise . . . yet. But there was the promise of it, and Crowley stilled immediately. 

“You’re impossible,” Aziraphale complained as soon as he’d had half a chance to get his breath back, though the tone he used would have been less out of place if he’d said _delicious_ instead. Sweat was beginning to bead on his forehead, and his own trousers, despite impeccable tailoring, felt nearly unbearable. “Do you enjoy making me angry? Is that what you want?”

“Yessss,” Crowley hissed impatiently, and bucked pointedly. 

Aziraphale jerked back to avoid another jolt to his cock—not that he didn’t feel one anyway, just from the mere suggestion—and substituted his grip on the demon’s hips with a knee on his back, pressing hard enough to keep Crowley, who yelped in surprise, held firmly down. That _would_ leave a bruise, probably. Served him right. 

“Don’t think you can manipulate me! I’m an angel of God, not some weak-willed human.”

Crowley glared over his shoulder, chin-length hair falling messily around eyes gone so snake-like that there was no longer any sclera visible. “Look,” he all but spat, and Aziraphale could see that his incisors had lengthened into noticeable fangs as he forgot himself, “we could keep fighting like this for days, angel, or you could settle this right now. Have your righteous way with me, put me in my place, and walk away feeling like you've won the argument in a fraction of the time. Just, for. . . . Just make up your blesséd mind!”

“Why, you—” Trembling at the audacity of the challenge, Aziraphale released him long enough to get ahold of Crowley’s shoulders, haul him up, and pitch him into the far wall. 

The look on Crowley’s face was almost comical as he flew purely by virtue of angelic throwing strength; he did, however, manage to twist around to impact back-first and slide down from a man-sized dent in the plaster to land on his feet before Aziraphale bore down on him again. This time, the angel pinned him with a hand to the chest, and there would _definitely_ be a full and five-fingered bruise there soon enough. 

"So be it,” Aziraphale growled. “But you won't be walking away anywhere near as easily by the time I'm done punishing you for your wickedness.”

“Promises, promises,” Crowley gasped, arching to rub his cock against whatever bit of the angel’s fine linen trousers he could reach. There _would_ be stains later, on the outside of the fabric as well as underneath. 

The next growl was wordless, all clashing mouths and teeth and tongues as Aziraphale crowded against him, no quarter given. 

* * *

In the lobby, a small crowd of convention attendees and hotel guests was beginning to form. No one seemed to know what was going on, not even the staff who were trying to get the double doors unlocked. 

“What do you mean the key won’t work?” asked one of the reservation agents. “It’s a key, it’s such basic technology that it barely even counts as technology. How can it just not work?”

“No idea,” the senior bellhop replied. Her expression was starting to look rather glazed. “It’s the right key. It worked yesterday. And see, it goes in the lock and when you turn it the lock clicks, but then it just . . . doesn’t open.” She demonstrated again, twice. “It just doesn’t.”

From inside came a great, cascading crash, as though a stack of metal chairs had been knocked over. 

“That's it,” the reservation agent snapped, and rounded on the other bellhops, interrupting hushed speculations about the fourteenth floor ghost. “Someone go get the manager, _now_.”

* * *

1Perhaps Aziraphale never quite made it past a chocolatier without going in first, regardless of the time of year, but that was neither here nor there. Return to text

2Much like Crowley’s comment in Eden about lead balloons, the term “blood diamond” popped into Heaven and Hell’s vocabularies rather ahead of its time. The conference going on in the background is not a complete nest of blood diamond activity; at this point in history, humans haven’t gotten around to making the distinction and therefore would be unlikely to give local politics near any given mine much consideration. Return to text

3God may have been an absent parent, but the archangel Michael didn’t raise no fool. Return to text

4That’s what he was calling it, anyway. Return to text

5This was not, strictly speaking, a lie. He had read original editions of the Kama Sutra and had never once quoted aloud from it, much less attempted to emulate its style. Return to text

6It was the glow from his halo, despite its not having literally manifested on the physical plane yet. Some things just arrive more quickly; it’s probably something to do with the speed of light, and quantum. Return to text


	2. Chapter 2

As beds went, it was probably the worst Crowley had ever experienced. Even straw mattresses, with their penchant for being scratchy and developing _inhabitants_ , held more appeal. Stone floors with a thin woven mat seemed positively luxurious in comparison. Curling up in a _hole in the sand_ had been more comfortable. He had the leg of a fallen chair under his head and the start of an impressive rugburn licking invisible flames across his arse where he’d skidded on the hotel carpet. 

But he wouldn’t have traded it for anything as Aziraphale swooped towards him again, eyes blazing. _All_ of his eyes, not that Crowley could see them through the holy nimbus that blurred the edges between earthly and heavenly, of physical form and metaphysical, sending ripples through the space and time immediately around them. The air felt warm and sticky, like taffy. It stung a little, but in a way that sent eager tingles from his core to extremities. 

Crowley could feel the same sort of bleeding-through in his own corporation: his spine elongating, nails gone black and pointed to wicked chitinous claws, patches of scaled hide itching maddeningly where it joined with his human skin as though he was in shed, which he wasn’t. That same anticipation, though, that same promise of release was thrumming in his veins, throbbing in his cock, intoxicating. He didn’t dare reach for it again, not after that last throw, and the knowledge made him even harder. 

It wasn’t _fair_ that Aziraphale was still fully clothed. The angel was on him, full weight gloriously bearing down, _hosannah, hosannah,_ sending Crowley’s eyes rolling back in his skull with a kiss that could only be described as fucking _ravenous_. Hands running possessively over skin and scales alike, all of it, lifting him as Aziraphale saw fit in order to touch every inch of him. 

Not just touch—Crowley felt seen on a molecular, no, bloody _atomic_ level, as surely as he could flick his tongue and taste Aziraphale on the air. Or, while the angel’s mouth trailed down his neck, nibbling and kissing and biting all the way down to the shoulder, press his face to those cloud-like white-blond curls and breath in like he might ever exhale again. But he did, gasping desperate cries of “fuck” and “Aziraphale” and “ngk.” His hips twitched with every dig of teeth and every shift of waistcoat-clad stomach, the perfect amount of give and pressure, sliding maddeningly against his cock. Angelic, exquisitely manicured hands kneaded at his arse and thighs without regard for the rugburns. . . . This was it, this was how he would discorporate, with a plump thumb nudging at his hole and precome leaking into clothes that, God willing, Aziraphale would tire of any day now and finally change for the next out-of-date fashion in the queue—because otherwise, there would be stains. And even miracled away Crowley would always know they were there. _Underneath._

He whined, and gave into the urge to snap his own fingers, long nails clicking together with the motion; article by article, Aziraphale’s outer layers melted away. 

Aziraphale tore himself away from sucking a dark mark onto a pale, freckled collarbone with a sharp frown. “Crowley!”

“Other side of the room,” Crowley whimpered, desperately rutting against the final remaining boundary of a cotton undershirt in the hope of rucking it up enough to finally feel skin, and practically salivating at the very idea. “Folded. Pressed. Exactly how you might like, angel, just give it to me, please, _please_!”

“Give it to you?” Aziraphale echoed. Suddenly his hand was at the top of Crowley’s head, fingers threading into his hair and fisting tight, other hand gripping fiercely at his chin. When Crowley met his eyes they were dilated and blazing, figuratively and literally, with fierce . . . _approval_. 

Satan’s balls, if he’d known that the angel would respond with such ferality to inappropriately timed arousal, he would have let on ages ago. Decades. Centuries. The moment he’d seen Aziraphale eat in Rome, honestly, lips and tongue teasing delicately at the first oyster straight out of the shell, so evocative that the effort Crowley had been wearing at the time had been instantly and jealously soaked. 

“Give it to you,” Aziraphale repeated intently, dragging the same thumb that just a moment ago had been decidedly elsewhere over a kiss-bruised bottom lip. “Greedy demon, far too greedy. I shouldn’t.”

A fresh bolt of lust jolted down Crowley’s spine at those last two words, Aziraphale’s dilated pupils laden with promise the way dark storm clouds carried the imminent threat of rain. _Shouldn’t_. Judging by the throbbing cock pressed to Crowley’s thigh, eagerly twitching in time with his every response and held back from skin on skin by only a single thin undergarment, he would anyway. It would be a cruelty to them both if he didn’t. 

Aziraphale swallowed hard, and wetted his lips without seeming to notice, his gaze was so unshakably fixed. “You’re so well suited to a multitude of sins, though. It’s . . . your natural state. Can’t be helped, I suppose.”

It was a near thing, but Crowley managed not to let out a hysterical laugh. Because the thing was . . . the thing . . . was . . . 

“ _Oh_ fuck,” he groaned as Aziraphale took his cock in hand with a firm grip, just to one side of painful and he couldn’t be arsed to care which. He’d take it. He would’ve taken slow and tender, even rougher, or anything in between just as happily, because, well. 

The thing was Crowley _hadn’t_ done anything with that human, really. Oh sure, he had flirted like Hell, but when it had come to the two of them alone in the penthouse suite, he’d simply snapped his fingers and instructed the man to have an extremely vivid dream about whatever he liked to do best. It was the same sort of ruse ( _I have plenty of people to fraternize with, angel, I don’t need you_ ) that he’d been getting away with ever since shortly after sex had been invented, simply because for the longest time it hadn’t particularly caught his interest. 

And then Aziraphale had eaten an oyster in front of him for the first time, making Crowley feel like a hormone-riddled pre-teen who’d unwittingly discovered both masturbation and porn in the same afternoon. 

Crowley would have thrown his head back if not for the fist holding him tightly in place. He could’ve fought back. His hands were still free, and if he’d tapped all of his strength and serpentine slipperiness then perhaps he could’ve gotten away, but that might break whatever story Aziraphale had constructed in his head to allow this to happen. _Beautiful idiot_ , _needing an excuse,_ Crowley thought in passing with lust-addled fondness, and unrepentant hypocrisy. 

No one had ever affected him the way Aziraphale (or even just the _idea_ of Aziraphale) did. At all. Point blank. Full stop. Research on that was forever ongoing in an idle sort of way, just to be certain of what Crowley, deep down as the molten hot center of the Earth, already knew—that there was only one being in God’s cursed creation that he wanted, in any and every way. 

So Crowley snapped his fingers again and rocked his hips up. He pressed his aching cock harder into Aziraphale’s hand and now naked stomach, shifting himself _just so_ between plush thighs to rub against the answering erection, damp tip finally free to smear an illegible sigil on his skin. 

Whatever shred of restraint that had kept Aziraphale from acting on this urge before seemed to have gone with the last of his underclothes. He leaned harder into the contact, pressing the breath out of Crowley—but it didn’t matter, it didn’t matter, who even really needed breathing anyway, fuck it, _fuck me—_ and wrenched his fistful of hair to one side to expose Crowley’s neck in one long, scale-speckled curve. With a sound not unlike what he usually reserved for a particularly opulent pudding, he latched on and kissed a bruise into the pale skin, licking, sucking, biting, _marking_ every square centimeter that he could reach in time with the _squeezing pulling sliding_ movement of his hand. He rutted urgently against Crowley’s thigh, hard enough that a non-demonic limb might have been crushed by the desperate force of it. Bruises promised, and earned—Crowley wasn’t exactly sure what he’d done to earn them, but he was a demon, so there was probably something and he reveled in that. _My angel is touching me, gloria in excelsis Aziraphale._

Too late, Crowley realized he’d spoken the Latin aloud only when Aziraphale abruptly left off jerking him off with a gasp at the blasphemy. 

“How dare,” Aziraphale began, staring down at him wide-and-wild-eyed, then stopped and tries again. “Try to make me a false idol, would you?”

And then he _moved,_ and before Crowley was sure of what was happening Aziraphale had already scooped him up. It should’ve hurt to be lifted by a hand in his hair and another splayed over the small of his back. Instead, all he felt was the sting of divinity humming all around him as the angel imaged him light as a feather, followed by the jolt of being flipped stomach-down with a deft twist and unceremoniously dropped onto the long conference room table, hips miraculously just clear of the edge. His face knocked against the fake-wood surface, and he felt the impact in his nose and treacherous cock; he tasted ironsalt blood in the back of his throat and groaned. 

Aziraphale growled low and deep above him. “It’s high time you were taught a lesson, demon.” 

Again, he didn’t even bother catching Crowley’s wrists to hold him down. Escape was right there on offer, a fruit ripe for the taking. And, at the same time, Aziraphale’s cock hugged the cleft of his ass, hot as a brand and twitching, rubbing with the motions of _almost_ entirely suppressed thrusts. _Promises, promises._ His eyes fluttered closed. 

“For my wickedness, right. I remember,” Crowley gasped, rocking his head blindly in a rough approximation of a nod and staying firmly put. The table was a cool surface against his overheated skin, against which his whole body felt like an exposed nerve, throbbing in time with his aching, dripping erection that didn’t seem nearly as put out at not being touched anymore as it might have been. “Fuck some decency into me, angel.” He spared a thought to heal his nose before digging the wicked points of his claws into the tabletop for purchase. “Yeah, fuck some, some goodness into me—”

Aziraphale interrupted by shifting the necessary fraction to push into him, with only a perfunctory preparation done by hasty miracle. _That_ would go on Heaven’s books, alright, and oh how Crowley was looking forward to taking the brunt of the blame for it. The rough intrusion was intoxicating, overwhelming in all the best ways. It sent Crowley’s thoughts spinning off towards Alpha Centauri to keep themselves occupied for a bit while his body went black-hot with equal parts pain and pleasure. 

* * *

They’d gotten the hotel manager. The hotel manager had sent for a maintenance crew to get the door unlocked. The maintenance crew had called for reinforcements and more tools, trying first to remove the door handles and bolts, then attempting to get both double doors off their hinges entirely. It was no use; the doors refused to budge. 

There were decidedly unearthly noises coming from inside the room, too. Many of the onlookers not employed by the hotel had gotten unnerved and left, slowly clearing the lobby as the last of the attendee foot traffic from the conference trickled to a stop. It was, for those who remained, beginning to look as though it would be an exceptionally long evening.

* * *

1Spoiler alert: God, on this point, would not prove willing at all. Return to text


	3. Chapter 3

Suffice it to say, Aziraphale had never been balls deep in anyone before. Which was not to say that he had _no_ experience; he had merely preferred to be on the receiving end with others[1] the past. Accepting their offerings, so to speak. Offering absolution in the temple of his celestial being. Nothing Earthly had ever seemed like such “gross matter” that he could not accept with good Grace. 

Being buried to the hilt in infernal heat, however, was such a different barrage of sensations that his eyes rolled back in his head and he _needed a moment_. Didn’t help that Crowley was somehow managing to urge him further in, without seeming to move or even speak beyond a breathy keening, even though there was no more _in_ to go. 

Was it plundering if everything about the demon seemed to be begging him to continue? Was it punishment if the intrusion was welcomed with spread legs and wanton gasps? Aziraphale didn’t know whether to trust this unspoken consent, or reject it as antithetical to the whole point. He had forgotten how to think entirely, forgotten what he’d told himself he wanted, forgotten everything but what he’d denied needing for . . . for how long now? Felt like all of time. 

He remembered how it felt to be on the receiving end of such attentions, knew what to do next. His hips drew back and snapped forward of their own instinctual accord, and without any conscious decision he’d already released his hold on Crowley’s hair to grip the demon’s hips so hard with both hands that it was only Crowley’s gouging grip on the table that kept him from being yanked back entirely and the both of them toppling to the floor. The muscles in Crowley’s skinny arms stood out sharply as Aziraphale rolled his hips again, setting a harsh but _necessary_ pace, staring down with pleasure-glazed eyes. _All_ of his eyes, all on Crowley, watching from every angle, inside and out, comparing the skin-and-scales canvas of back quivering and tensing before him to the contrast of bruises and bites he’d already peppered across the front of Crowley’s neck, shoulders, and chest. 

And still, no matter how punishing the snap of his hips, Aziraphale felt Crowley straining towards him, eager to take more. Take and take and take, and he was so _warm_ —a furnace of need stoked by the fires of damnation, and sin his only sustenance. Insatiable. It felt glorious to be needed in that way, to be demanded of and to provide. It felt red-hot and blasphemous, like Crowley’s aura, leaving conflicting aftertrails on Aziraphale’s soul. 

What Aziraphale really wanted was for Crowley to understand some of the complicated tangle that had risen like a lump in his throat when he’d seen a small sample of the demon—it was impossible to not think _his_ demon in accompaniment to the sound of their bodies meeting again and again so wonderfully—being intimate with someone else. He’d never imagined anything like this, he’d wanted . . . something he couldn’t recall now, drugged and desperate as he was in the face of this raw need. 

Angels could feel need as well as love,[2] oh yes, and Crowley was filled to the brim. 

_O God, forgive your servant for needing to feel desired._

“Am I getting through to you?” Aziraphale asked wildly in between panting gulps of air, his voice rough. When Crowley didn’t immediately respond, he tugged sharply at his hair for emphasis. “Am I speaking your language, is pressing it into your flesh like this what it takes?”

They’d already cut through all the bullshit, it seems. Stripped of his usual bravado and cheek, Crowley tensed beautifully around Aziraphale’s cock and croaked a heartfelt, “Yessssssss.”

“Yes what?” Aziraphale moaned. The tighter his grip in Crowley’s flamebright hair, the more Crowley arched backwards like a bow frame being pulled taut by angelic string. A harp holding itself up on the table with trembling arms, capable of playing only one single, building note that Aziraphale could feel coming from the inside out. 

“Ngk.” Crowley’s head was down, whatever expression his face wore a divine mystery, but he sounded desperate, reverent, and absolutely wrecked. “Yessssssss, angel, loud and crysssstal clear. Like a— _fuck_ —ring in a—hah- _ah_ —in a blesssssed bell!”

Aziraphale chased that tremulous tightening around his cock, driving into the demon harder, bearing down on any angle he could find that produced a louder cry than the last. The entire time, words spilled from his lips syllable by syllable as if in a state of delirium as his own orgasm loomed. “ _I want you_ —”

Things he had never dared to say out loud before, things he had barely even admitted to himself in the silence of his own soul. Whatever had been released now, for all that it was violent and rending and abrupt on the surface. . . . Beneath that, all he wanted was to be heard, and somehow, maybe, perhaps, this way Crowley might be able to understand. Wasn’t that how demons liked it? Didn’t that make the effort for an angel of the Lord to operate on this level worth something?

 _“—I’ve wanted you for such a long time_ —”

In, out, in, out, until he was going much too fast, because it was all wrong, because he wanted a proper connection and didn’t know where else to begin but with the physical kind. But it did seem to be working. . . . Crowley met him thrust for thrust, so in sync with the tide of his body that Aziraphale didn’t have to guide him, was able to let his hands wander more than before, fingers sliding over the indent of ribs. One hand reached between the table and the flushed creature beneath him to find and pinch a nipple, sending Crowley bucking back even harder. Aziraphale, leaning over and pinning him with his own weight, groaned as scale edges rasped and prickled against his bare chest. 

_“—Crowley_ —”

And he was so close. _So_ close, to, just, everything spilling out. To relenting and letting the moment become slow and saccharine in a manner sure to send Crowley slithering away like the burned thing he was; to saying three little words that humans sometimes said to each other in the hopes of someday hearing it back, without having any such hope of his own; to coming so hard that his toes curled and a heartfelt shout of divine ecstasy might well the entire building down upon them. 

_“—You have no_ idea _.”_

At that, he felt the demon shudder—a full-body event that started inside, squeezing around his cock, and spread outwards in a bloom of black scales and feathers. A low, unearthly wail accompanied Crowley’s orgasm as he came untouched, stifled only by the conference table surface and tightly clenched teeth. 

It was the final nudge needed to tumble over the edge. Aziraphale sagged down and pressed his face to Crowley’s sleek-scaled back between the suddenly reappeared wings, lips pressed tight together in the most chaste kiss of the entire encounter in an effort to not cry out as well.[3]

They stayed suspended in mutual ecstasy for a small eternity as their true forms unfolded, stretched, rippled, and folded together. As on the physical plane, it was not without discomfort. They hadn’t been made for this; nothing had. It was a glorious accident. 

Their mingled presence filled the room, _was_ the room, was the _universe_. Together they were one blazing serpentine eye that could do naught but See, regarding all of creation and finding it Good. 

* * *

Outside, in the hotel lobby, the conference room door had been roped off. The manager was thinking of walling it off entirely in the hopes of muffling the . . . the noises, but that would require getting the owner’s approval. 

It was not a conversation that any hotel manager worth their salt would look forward to, but _something_ needed to change before the remaining lobby staff up and quit. 

* * *

When Aziraphale’s consciousnesses deigned to fully return to his corporeal form, he felt more sated than he had ever known could be possible. He blinked, and it was with only his two human eyes; the others seemed to have already closed, in drowsy satisfaction. Beneath him, even though they didn’t need to breathe, Crowley’s body rocked faintly with the force of steady, shallow, stifled breaths. 

What was it Crowley had told him at the start of this insanity? _Have your righteous way with me, put me in my place, and walk away feeling like you've won the argument in a fraction of the time._

Well . . . the first part of that could be well and truly crossed off the list now, couldn’t it. Possibly even the second part, from the way the demon lay passively beneath him, still trembling with the aftershocks, little lazy clenches and unclenches around Aziraphale’s still-buried cock. 

He did not feel as though he’d won the argument. Instead, amidst the drowsy satisfaction, he felt the first bloom of shame. This wasn’t. . . . It hadn’t been anything like he’d. . . . Oh, _fuck_. 

“I, ah,” he said shakily and began reluctantly to withdraw. The loss of that hellish heat around him made him shiver, and his throat ached, voice hoarse as though he’d been screaming or hadn’t had anything to drink in years. “Crowley, I’m so sorry, I think I may have . . . made rather a mess of things. . . .”

When Crowley didn’t answer, Aziraphale reached and touched his shoulder. Perhaps, in the fight—oh, how he hated to recall the way he’d thrown him around like a rag doll. Crowley hadn’t seemed to do much to resist, had even seemed to revel in it, but what if he had been seriously injured?

So Aziraphale was gentle in helping him to roll over. At first he thought Crowley was trying to avoid looking at him because. . . . Maybe he had been wrong, about the revelling. But when he finally caught sight of the demon’s face, it was like a physical blow striking the very air from his lungs. 

Crowley was _crying._ The tears were thick and opaque, the color of Judas-silver, rolling down his cheeks in streaks that reflected the shine of Aziraphale’s still partially manifested halo. In their path, a glimmering silver web clung to the edges of scales like grout between tiles. Unquestionably demonic tears. But it was his eyes that captured Aziraphale’s gaze and wouldn’t let him look away. 

The look in those unavoidably demonic eyes wasn’t need; it was something else that angels could sense. 

_Oh no,_ Aziraphale thought dumbly. 

Was it because of what they’d just done? Had a touch of the Divine, a brush with untarnished Grace caused this? Was it even real? Or had he somehow missed it before, pulled into ignorance by a firm conviction that demons wouldn’t, _couldn’t_. . . .

And which would be worse, to have caused it just now or to simply have never noticed?

Crowley’s mouth opened shakily, seeing what Aziraphale had realized and trying to gather the words to speak. 

Aziraphale was no coward, but he hurriedly miracled himself clothed again and back to the safety of the bookshop before Crowley could say anything. Because what he had seen—and, now that he was aware, felt with every cell in his corporation, even over the distance he’d just put between them—was desperate, despairing, hopeless _love._

* * *

1Read: humans. Very few angels are interested in earthly pleasures of the flesh, and as for demons. . . . Well, aside from one very specific demon, Aziraphale has never ventured nor cared to think about it. Return to text

2All the better to help the needy with, my dear. Return to text

3He had no desire to end up fussing bits of drywall and concrete out of his hair and clothing, not today. . . . Not to mention there were over a dozen floors worth of innocent bystanders above them, so on the whole it would be a terribly un-angelic catastrophe to cause.Return to text


End file.
